


He Says He Volunteers As Tribute

by ErinPtah



Series: In which Carlos survives the Hunger Games [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Dehydration, Dubious Morality, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress, Sedative Use, Suicidal Thoughts, Traumatized Carlos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. How Carlos scienced his way into winning the Hunger Games, coped with the ongoing attentions of terrifying Capitol commentator Cecil Palmer, and, eventually, found himself acting as mentor to twelve-year-old Tamika Flynn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Volunteer

**Author's Note:**

> Complete, in three parts. Will be posted as it's edited (in between chapters of the ongoing HDM AU).
> 
> Part one: Carlos's Games...as told through the voice of Cecil, the long-time Games commentator who fell in love with him the instant he volunteered.

And we're back! In case you're just joining us, viewers, we're in the middle of a quick recap of the District tributes for this year's Hunger Games.

Next up, my absolute favorite: District Five, male: Carlos! Just look at that face, Panem. That strong jaw. That _hair_. Isn't he beautiful?

And brave, too! Carlos has the distinction of being one of the only volunteers ever seen in his district, taking the place of his younger brother Michael. It's especially gutsy this year because, as of just recently, District Five has no living Victors to act as mentor. You may remember that their one living Victor last year, Joel Isenberg, succumbed to a bout of throat spiders several weeks after the end of the Games.

Ah, throat spiders. That rare but deadly infection, whose final throes just happen to look not-at-all-suspiciously like self-inflicted knife wounds to the jugular vein.

Well, viewers, our initial reports in from Five tell us that sixteen-year-old Carlos is not only beautiful, but smart — one of the most intelligent students in his class. I bet you he won't even need mentoring to get through the Games. In fact, if I were legally allowed to place bets, I would be putting several large ones down on Carlos already.

I'm sure we'll be hearing plenty about this young man over the next week. Possibly even from people other than me.

Now, I'm being signaled by Games management to move on, so, reluctantly, let us go on to District Five, female....

 

***

 

...and, oh my, are those really their fashion choices? Let me tell you right now, viewers, the District Four stylists are not going to be setting any trends this year! The opening ceremonies are for making a _splash_ , and the Four tributes, I am sorry to say, are simply all wet.

Oh, good, here comes the Five chariot! With its tributes, Simone and fan-favorite, national treasure, Carlos —

— who did that to his _hair?_

It's so short! So tragically, dreadfully short? What stylist would do this? Are they _trying_ to lose him sponsors?

I don't care for their outfits either, but I must say, Carlos' is at least flattering to his physique, and would look downright passable if it were merely a framing device to accentuate his now long-lost flowing locks.

 

***

 

"I guess...I'm just real worried for my pets."

An animal lover, then! Don't you worry, Simone, even if you don't make it, I'm sure there will be plenty of kind people back home in your district to take them in.

"..."

...Simone? Still with us?

"The world ended three or four decades ago."

Are you referring to the Uprising, or...?

"Dunno what this is we're living in. But it's not the world. Turkey with extra swiss."

I...see. And we are out of time! Thank you for that thought-provoking reflection, Simone, and please do your best to come back and talk to us again.

And now...Carlos!

[Applause.]

It's lovely to see you. Sit down, sit down.

"Nice to see you too...Cecil, right?"

That's right! Gosh, all this must be so new to you, huh?

"Sort of. I've heard your voice plenty. I just never had a name to put to it until now."

Wow! You've listened to me before?

"Well, you do commentate the Games, and watching them is mandatory...."

Of course, yes, let's talk about the Games. We understand, Carlos, that you got an eight on your training score. That's very good, remarkably so for a young man from outside the traditional winning districts, and I'm sure you did something impressive to earn it...but more importantly than that...your outfit is much more flattering than the last one! How are you liking your new stylist?

"He seems to know what he's doing. But I thought the last guy did too. What happened to Telly, by the way?"

The treacherous Telly? Seems the Games Committee had the good sense to dismiss him. After the disaster he made of your gorgeous locks....

"You realize I asked him to cut them, right?"

What?

"Long hair gets in your face. It gets tangled in things. It's easier to grab, it's better at catching fire...I don't understand why anyone would keep their hair long once they knew they were going to be a tribute. The smart thing to do would be to cut it the first chance you got."

Huh. I never thought of it that way. You're so smart, Carlos!

You do like your new stylist, though, right?

His tan jacket is _iconic_ , and he's been working with tributes for a lot of Games. I bet he could even give you and your district partner some advice, in place of the mentor you two are tragically lacking at the moment.

"Actually, he's given me a little bit of advice already."

Really! Care to share? Or are you keeping it in your pocket until you get to the Arena?

"No, no, in this case it was advice about these interviews. He said...'Smile for Cecil.'"

[Awwws.]

 

***

 

Here it comes, viewers! The moment of truth, the very first sight our tributes will get of this year's Arena.

Watch the clock with me....

Ah! What an interesting choice! It's been a while since we've had a desert Arena. Very little cover, and only time will tell how much water there is. Some of our tributes look quite startled by this turn of events.

And...oh, are you seeing this, Panem? Everyone else is either staring at the Cornucopia or looking left and right, but Carlos is the only tribute _turning around_. Getting a full view of his surroundings! It's that kind of intelligence and planning that will give you a leg up in the Games, perhaps even over those tributes who might have more physical training or —

There's the cannon!

They're off!

 

***

 

And as we sign off for our broadcast tonight, we leave you with today's deaths:

District Three, female; District Six, male; District Eight, male; District Eight, female; District Nine, female; District Ten, male; District Ten, female; District Eleven, female.

Good night, Panem. Good night.

 

***

 

Oh, dear. That certainly is not a clean kill, is it, Panem?

I suppose this is it for Simone Rigadeau. Her pet cans back in Five will no doubt miss her. I do hope someone takes them in.

My, this is really getting...oh, good, a new scene! As we've shown you on the map earlier, this canyon is one of the few places in the Arena with any cover, including some caves and crevices in the stony walls. It also has a small stream at the bottom, but the water is not safe to drink. Will this young man, our candidate from District Three, think to purify it first?

...I guess he won't.

I must say, that was not a satisfying level of suspense.

But wait — can it be? — it is! Stunning, strikingly windswept Carlos, whom we have not seen much of since yesterday afternoon, has emerged from a hiding place in the rocks to examine the body. Let's go to the diagram tracking his position over time, to find out how long he's been there. Do we have that diagram?

Ah, there we go. Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like Carlos found his way to the base of the canyon several hours before sunrise. You may recall that Carlos did not retrieve anything at the Cornucopia, so he has spent nearly twenty-four hours without liquid. Brave, self-restraint-practicing Carlos! Let's go back to the live feed and see what he's gained from this less-cautious tribute's bag.

A knife...a plastic bottle, empty...some beef jerky and dried plums...nothing especially liquid-y, and I'm being handed a note saying this bag was not equipped with water-purifying tablets.

Oh, that's smart, Carlos, getting back under cover before you eat! You enjoy what little feast you have there. You've certainly earned it.

 

***

 

Once again, we sign off, leaving you with the day's deaths:

District Three, male; District Five, female; District Seven, male; District Nine, male; District Twelve, female.

Good night, Panem. Good night.

 

***

 

Thank you for talking to us today, Shadow! Again, that was Shadow Haze, the genetic designer who personally created these wonderful diving-bird-of-prey muttations you're about to see in action. Let's go to the live feed!

You'll recall that the tributes from One and Two have formed their traditional alliance, and are currently camped out at the Cornucopia, defending their spoils. Our highest scorer this year was the gentleman from District Two, but in this case the person to watch is probably the young lady from District One, Glow, who has demonstrated exceptional skill with a bow. And here she is now!

Oh, that was a good shot!

And another! Isn't she fast? Dead mutts are just dropping out of the sky right now. Well done, Glow!

...Whoops, looks like she missed that one. And there goes our highest scorer! Sadly, we do not have cameras mounted on the muttations themselves, so as our top scorer is carried into the sky, we are unable to follow him as effectively as we would like.

Wait, never mind! He's coming down now.

 

***

 

District Two, male; District Four, female; District Four, male.

Good night, Panem. Good night.

 

***

 

If you're just joining us, we are currently viewing the part of the Arena our designers have dubbed Radon Canyon. We're following Vithya, from District Seven, who you may recall was provided with water yesterday thanks to a generous sponsor. I am looking at a report saying that the backpack currently in her possession contains purification tablets. Will she use them?

She is not drinking straight from the stream. She is filling up a water bottle....

Carlos comes up from behind!

 _Oh._ Oh dear. I begin to see what Carlos meant about long hair being distressingly easy to grab.

Vithya is struggling...she is bleeding out....

Don't look so sad, Carlos! You'll have drinkable water now! And even if the stream is not safe to drink from, you will at least be able to wash off your hands.

Wait, he said something. Can we get a close-up and play that back, louder?

"I need ammonia. Anybody want to drop some for me? Ammonia. The kind you'd have around the house is fine."

How exciting! He has a plan! I wonder what it is?

Excuse me for a minute, viewers. I need to look up some prices.

 

***

 

District Six, female; District Seven, female; District Twelve, male.

Good night, Panem....

 

***

 

If I may interject my personal opinion for a minute, viewers: acid rain, while it sounds quite dramatic, is really not much of a vehicle for drama. All it does is encourage our remaining tributes to stay under cover, and how much conflict can you get out of that?

 

***

 

District Two, female; District Eleven, male.

...good night.

 

***

 

Sitting down with us now in the studio is Leann Hart, a long-time Capitol escort for our honored Hunger Games tributes. This year she was the escort for the late Simone, and the un-late, strong-jawed Carlos. Thank you for joining us, Leann!

"Cecil, you are the most ridiculously biased commentator the Hunger Games have ever seen."

Thank you for that assessment, Leann. So, when you first accompanied Carlos to the Capitol, did you have any idea he would make it to the final three?

"Of course! I don't know how anyone could miss it. I certainly didn't bet a large amount of my personal income on some other candidate. Hahaha, that would be stupid!"

Also, people whose positions are as closely involved in the Games as yours are not allowed to bet on the outcome, isn't that correct?

"What? I mean, of course! Yet one more very good reason why I did not bet anything on one of the late candidates from District Two. Certainly not my house. That would just be ridiculous. Anyway, I don't even have a house! Who told you that? Houses are not even a thing."

 

*** 

 

We interrupt this Arena retrospective to bring you a breaking development: the candidates from District One are on the move!

They are both well equipped with full water bottles and packs of food. It looks like that was the last of the food available at the Cornucopia, which means they have to either find a new source or bring an end to the Games.

The only other tribute remaining, of course, is the Capitol's favorite new arrival, Carlos! We haven't seen much of Carlos for the past two days, which is a tragedy for our time, but our thoughtful interns down in the editing room have cut together a short summary of what he's been up to in and around that little cave of his. Let's watch!

...I have no idea what Carlos is trying to do here.

He's so _smart_.

 

***

 

This could be it, viewers! As you can see on the overhead map here, the trackers of our intrepid young volunteers from District One are approaching the hideout of the also-intrepid even-younger volunteer from District Five. Let's go to the live feed.

As you can see, Glow has her bow at the ready, and....

A noise! They've both heard it. They're suspicious, and rightly so — for all they know, it could be another muttation — but we know better, don't we, Panem? And, oh dear, it looks as if the young man is deciding to go for it. He's approaching that little walkway up to Carlos' cave — he has a spear —

Oh!

Um.

...

That is quite a lot of smoke, isn't it?

...

And now Glow looks very distressed. She is aiming at the cloud of violet smoke, which expands every time there is a new explosion, but she is unable to see her target, and all the echoes make it hard to pinpoint the source of the screaming. Just shoot into the cloud, Glow!

Shots fired!

And there's the cannon! I am not sure if it was one of the shots or the continuing explosions that did the trick, but I will let you know just as soon as we get the autopsy results back.

Glow is keeping her distance now. She appears to be...gathering a handful of the sandy dirt from where she is standing. Oh, I see her strategy! Throw it onto the area leading up to Carlos' cave, see if she can trigger all the explosions to pave a safe path for her approach. I do hope Carlos has a backup plan.

In the meantime...along with probably most of the rest of you, I have no idea what just happened. Could we get a slow-motion playback, please?

Here we go! All right. The young man from District One approaches. He steps on...I don't know what! It looks like there's nothing there besides ordinary dust and grit, but it clearly explodes on contact. Now, it looks like the first explosion largely only goes through his shoes, but of course that's enough to make him trip, and he lands on even _more_ of the explosive substance. The scene is quickly enveloped in violet smoke, but as you could hear by the ongoing series of bangs echoing around Radon Canyon along with the screaming, new explosions were being continually triggered for quite a while there.

I for one am very impressed. I didn't realize Carlos knew _science!_

 

***

 

Final showdown time, ladies and gentlemen.

It has been a long time since the last explosion. The smoke has nearly cleared away. Glow is making her approach.

Cutting to the view inside the cave, we can see that Carlos is awake and alert. I suppose it wouldn't have been easy for him to fall asleep with all that noise.

You will recall that Glow's strength lies in long-range fighting, but since there is no angle from which to fire an arrow into Carlos' cave, she will have to test her strength in hand-to-hand combat. She has retrieved her late district partner's spear. Carlos, of course, still has his knife....

Here they go!

Carlos takes a whack to the head, but gets a grip on the shaft of the spear, nearly throwing Glow off-balance. She lunges — he takes a punch to the gut — uses the cliff wall for leverage — and they're on the ground! The spear goes clattering across the rock — they're grappling over the knife — Carlos gets a good slice out of her shoulder —

And the knife goes flying out of reach! That can't be good —

Oh, never mind! I see Carlos also has a rock.

 

***

 

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for...the Victor of this year's Hunger Games...Carlos the Scientist!

[Thunderous applause.]

Welcome back, Carlos, welcome back! It's _so_ wonderful to see you.

"Hi, Cecil. What do you mean, 'the Scientist'?"

Hasn't anyone told you? I suppose you've been rather busy, what with getting yourself re-hydrated and recovering from malnutrition and having a few unsightly scrapes and bruises touched up, but you would think one of the doctors and/or plastic surgeons would have mentioned it! That's all anybody's calling you these days, because of your brilliant Games-winning strategy. Isn't it a charming nickname?

"I...yes."

You absolutely must tell us how you did it. Of course, our own scientists have been talking about practically nothing else for days, but I've been _dying_ to hear it straight from you.

"...Have you, now."

Absolutely! Soooooo?

"The tablets, for purifying water: they're iodine. Dissolve them in ammonia and filter it, you get nitrogen triiodide. Very dangerous. Have to let it react where you'll use it. Explodes if you move it."

So what you're saying is that our viewers should not try this at home?

"Please don't."

And how did you get the idea to try it in the first place? Did you come up with it all by yourself?

"I knew what kinds of chemicals are normally sent into the Arena, so I did a little research. That's all."

Wow! Gosh, I guess this sends a pretty clear message to all you kids out there: study hard! It just might save your life some day!

[Appreciative laughter.]

I have to admit, Carlos, we were all pretty worried, seeing you go in there without a mentor. But it sounds like you haven't needed any help this whole time.

"I had some. From the man in the tan jacket. I wish I'd had more."

Well, the good news is, next year's tributes from Five will have you to count on! I certainly hope your stylist will stay with your district too. He's done such beautiful work — you look stunning right now, by the way — and the lab coat is a wonderful stylistic touch. Has he given you any more tips since you got out of the Arena?

"He said one thing right before I came out here."

Do tell!

"Smile for Cecil one more time, and then you can go home."

 

***

 

Well, we are just about out of time. Let's give another big hand to Carlos the Scientist, everyone! May the odds be ever in his favor.

Stay tuned next for Capitol Fashion, featuring a new line of fur pants and an exciting collection of footwear made entirely of sand.

Good night, Panem. Good night.


	2. The Victor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos has survived the Hunger Games, earning himself a cute nickname and a hefty helping of trauma. One year later, he has to return to the Capitol in the company of next year's tributes...and re-encounter the commentator who still has a frankly scary obsession with him.

Some Victors can't sleep without a knife under their pillows. Carlos can't sleep without a full bottle of water at his side.

He takes long baths, and always leaves the tub for someone else to drain. It's three months before he can make himself flush toilets on a regular basis. After one string of particularly bad nightmares, he sneaks downstairs and starts filling spare glasses with tap water; Mamá finds him there in the morning, fast asleep on the hard tile floor, surrounded by every cup, bowl, pot, pan, and miscellaneous vessel in the kitchen.

Sometimes he wishes his parents would run out of patience and order him to pull himself together. Mostly he's glad they don't try.

He has to figure out from scratch how to relate to his siblings. Lena, who's close to his age, almost gets it; she cuts her prized waist-length hair into a bob as soon as he asks, without question, which means he doesn't have to tell her about the vivid waking visions he's had of grabbing it, of her blood all over his hands. Mikey seems normal at home but is acting out at school, getting into fights, and when he gets home he runs to his big brother for defense — and what is Carlos supposed to do, tell him that violence is never the answer?

Little Azalea is just scared of him. She wasn't even supposed to watch the Games, but she managed to catch a few scenes and has heard horror stories from her classmates, and it's enough. Papi and Lena insist she'll grow out of it. Carlos doesn't want to think about her growing at all, not when every year brings her closer to being Games-eligible.

Almost the only thing that makes him feel secure is holing up in "the lab" (a room in the house next door to theirs, in the otherwise-empty Victors' Village) with chemistry textbooks and a stack of common household products. He looks up formulas; he runs tests. He needs to know which explosives and which poisons a scared kid in the Arena has the best shot at making. Even if he can't afford the ingredients for next year's Fives, he'll at least be able to warn them what the Careers are most likely to try, and what they need to look out for.

 

***

 

On that winter's Victory Tour, Carlos' Capitol escort, Leann Hart, gives him something "to help you set aside your anxieties and give a factual, objective presentation to the people of each district. What are you talking about, it's perfectly legal, and I don't know why you're insinuating otherwise."

Carlos floats through the next twelve days in a drugged haze, which is pretty much the only way he was going to survive them, so kudos to Leann on that count. He reads the canned speeches Leann gives him, and walks away with vague memories of saying that such-and-such a district must be the most fascinating place in the country.

The photos he sees later look passable. You can ignore the glazed eyes and focus on the bleached-white grin, on the hair growing out in silky curls around his face.

 

***

 

Leann tapers him off the sedatives for the tour finale in the Capitol. His stylist, the man in the tan jacket, dresses him for the party in plain black clothes under a long white coat. It goes with his nickname — The Scientist — as if he's famous for doing eccentric-but-harmless research around town, not for using science to blow a fellow teenager to pieces.

Half the Capitol citizens at the party are wearing water bottles in adjustable slings, each one more stylized and ridiculous than the last. They're excited to show him, to let him know that he's started a trend, isn't he proud? Carlos smiles, and nods, and mentally catalogs every object within reach that's light enough for him to lift but heavy enough to do some damage. It's calming. Like meditation.

He does the same thing later, inside President Winchell's mansion. She probably has enough experience to guess that he's doing it. Doesn't stop her from inviting him, alone, into her office.

"I'd like to congratulate you in person," she says. "All our Victors bring credit to their districts, of course, but you were especially clever."

Carlos nods. There's a carved bust of one of Panem's founders on the windowsill behind her, to the left; a sturdy-looking paperweight on her desk; half a dozen heavy bookends on the shelves to either side. He tightens his grip on the strap of his water bottle to keep from reaching for one.

"You are also — I'm sure you've heard this many a time — especially handsome. Put that together, and plenty of our country's most distinguished citizens would love the chance to meet you."

"I'd be happy to," lies Carlos.

"Of course you will," says President Winchell. "When you get the news that someone has requested the pleasure of your company, you will be charming, and cooperative, and happy to do whatever they ask."

There's an edge to her tone that Carlos doesn't understand.

And then he does.

But he's never even _kissed_ anyone, let alone —

"I don't know how," he says, because it's the only objection he thinks has any chance of moving her. "I'll be terrible. Incompetent. They'll only be disappointed."

"Now, Carlos. The whole country has seen how resourceful you can be," replies the president without missing a beat. "Especially when protecting your younger brother. He's still Games-eligible for several more years, isn't that right? And I understand you have two sisters, too? I'm sure you'll figure out a way to manage."

 

***

 

Back in the lab, Carlos mixes up half a dozen odorless or sweet-tasting poisons and stares at them for a long time.

He can't go by himself. After everything else he's done, he can't leave his siblings to be made an example of.

Which is why he's made more than enough for four doses. They'll be home from school in less than an hour. Lena trusts him, Mikey adores him, and Azalea's warmed up to him enough that the other two could convince her to sit with him for a while.

_I made something, just for you. Let's have a toast, okay? To family. On the count of three...._

...and then whichever two children from Five get reaped in six months will be mentorless. Winchell won't have any shortage of other ways to punish the district, either. It could be two twelve-year-olds up there, this time with no siblings to volunteer for them.

Carlos can hardly protect every child in Five with mass suicide.

He takes the solutions (hah) back to their house, carefully labeled with chemical compounds and lowest effective doses, and asks his father to drive them over to the hospital. Papi doesn't ask why he made them.

For the next few nights he only sleeps with the help of some extra sedatives Leann slipped him.

 

***

 

He's mostly sober for the Reaping, enough to be awake and alert but not so much that he's fighting panic attacks. The tributes deserve him at his best. He brings two extra water bottles, and hands one each to the boy and the girl as they step onto the train.

Maureen is fourteen and sharp; she asks questions about what the Gamemakers like to see in training, about what Carlos thinks is a good opening strategy for someone like her who thinks fast but isn't much of a runner. She also listens when Carlos lays out how to mix a few chemicals he thinks he might get away with sending her, and can repeat the procedure back to him when he quizzes her on it the next day.

Jésus is a year older than Carlos, and while he's not as out-of-touch with reality as Simone Rigadeau was, he's not great at following the things Carlos tries to tell him, either. Or maybe Carlos just sucks at explaining them. It's only his first year; he doesn't have much basis for comparison.

He tries to encourage the kids to team up. The boy's pretty tall and has long legs; he can grab stuff from the Cornucopia, and she can figure out how best to use it.

She gets a six in training. He gets a seven. Carlos holds out hope. Tributes have won with less.

 

***

 

Maureen gets a hatchet thrown at her during the bloodbath, and Jésus takes an arrow to the back while running away. They're both dead inside of ten minutes.

In his cubicle at Mentor Central, with the wonderful cushy seating (designed to be sat on almost nonstop for days on end if necessary), Carlos stares blankly at the two screens. Like if he waits long enough, they'll switch back on.

He doesn't cry. Crying is a waste of water.

"Carlos?"

It isn't Leann, or even his stylist. It's Josie. A mentor from District Seven, and one of the oldest Victors still living. "Why are you here?" hisses Carlos.

"To bring you tea, son. Decaf. And a roast beef sandwich. You could probably use some protein." She holds up the items in question, then comes over and takes the empty seat next to him, like they're old friends who have casual lunches together all the time. "We thought you'd do best with me. Of course, if you're secretly the type to work out your anger through physical violence after all, John Peters — you know, from the farming district? — would be happy to do a bit of therapeutic sparring."

Carlos' brain is a jumble of _food, water, take it_ and _don't, she's another district, it's not safe_. Especially since..."No, really — why would you want to — Vithya, she was —"

"My tribute," says Josie calmly, and, oh no, Carlos had realized they were both from Seven but this is even worse. "And this year Steve's girl shot your boy, and maybe next week, or next year, one of mine will kill Steve's. None of us are any better than you, son, and we don't pretend to be."

She holds out the food again.

This time, Carlos takes it.

 

***

 

Josie's still with him when an Avox comes to deliver a message. His tributes' bodies aren't even cool yet, and someone has requested _the pleasure of his company._

Worse yet, it's the commentator who had such a frightening obsession with him the year before.

(Should've had his hair cut before he left home.)

He reads the name to Josie, who shakes her head but doesn't look too worried. "Of course it would be him. Don't you worry too much, Carlos. Cecil may come across as a little...sinister...on air, but he's much nicer in person than he sounds."

 

***

 

Carlos' stylist puts him in the faux lab coat again for this outing. The announcers for the Games work in the same complex that the mentors do, so Carlos gets to wait for Cecil in the lobby, with a couple of Peacekeepers standing casually around in case he tries anything.

At last Cecil steps out of the elevator, wearing a silk tunic and furry pants. No wonder he's a Capitol fashion icon.

"Carlos~!" he exclaims, practically skipping across the marble floor. "I am so very sorry about your tributes. Let me do my best to take your mind off them."

He links his arm through Carlos', and ushers him out to a waiting cab.

Carlos has seen Cecil up close before, even though they were both covered in stage makeup and he was too panic-dazzled (the first time) or numb (the second) to make much of an impression. This year Cecil looks much the same: artificially white hair, eerily white eyes to match, skin a few shades lighter than Carlos' and practically unlined. He must have some kind of anti-aging treatment going on. He can't be as young as he looks unless he started commentating when he was...well, an age that in the Districts would have made him Games-eligible.

"We're going to make a very short stop at Marcus Vansten's party," explains Cecil, after giving the driver an address. "He has one every year, and I absolutely must put in an appearance, just out of respect for the remarkable amount of money he has. If at any point you decide you're not comfortable, we can go home even earlier than planned. Just say the word."

Assuming Cecil isn't planning to rape him _at_ the party, Carlos thinks he'll be okay with staying there all night.

 

***

 

...and then he lets his temper get the better of him, when the fourth or fifth Capitol person (this one wearing a trendy shoulder strap that doesn't even have a bottle attached) coos over how sad they are for his loss, in exactly the same tone they would use if he'd been coaching the kids at football.

He's practically snarling at the vapid green-haired woman when Cecil announces that it's time for them to leave. It reminds Carlos of why he's here, and he lets Cecil lead him out, trying not to lunge at the nearest person who wolf-whistles at their exit.

"It's all right, you haven't lost any face," Cecil assures Carlos in the back of the cab. "Your status as a Victor has cemented your reputation for life. They might even be impressed that you're so...free-spirited."

"Of course they will be." Carlos is trying to hold back, but he's a scared, angry seventeen-year-old with more than a slight death wish: all reactants waiting for a chance to catalyze, and the knowledge that his siblings' lives depend on him will only inhibit the reaction so far. "Makes the whole thing easier, right? You get to say what a shame it is, all those kids getting brutally murdered every year, but hey, at least it's just those bloodthirsty little monsters from the Districts, not people with _manners_."

"The Hunger Games are a commemoration of the successful quelling of the Uprising that nearly tore apart our fair country," says Cecil, like he's reciting it out of a history book. "It has nothing to do with how polite you are as a person. And I've certainly never thought of you as a bloodthirsty monster."

Carlos lets out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "Sure you haven't."

"I haven't! Where would I get an idea like that?"

He sounds genuinely confused. Carlos can't think why. Sure, there's a lot that didn't make it into the public broadcasts, as he's learned from talking around the subject with people back home, but — "You were commentating when I stabbed...when I asked for ammonia. Are you telling me you missed what happened next?"

In the car seat beside him, Cecil shrugs. "I'm sure your feed was still on in the control room, but I was a little busy at the time."

"Busy? What could you possibly have been busy with?"

"Ordering ammonia. Dear Carlos, please tell me: what is it you expected me to see?"

Carlos doesn't even know how to process that casual revelation, so he puts it aside. "Use a little scientific deduction, Cecil! I had plans for the iodine, so I was trying to save it up. And why waste it on purifying the water when I had a safe source of fluids right in front of me?"

"Oh," says Cecil softly. "That must have been...difficult."

Yes. Being in the Hunger Games is _difficult_. No wonder Cecil is the nation's favorite commentator, with stunning observations like that. "Thank you for noticing," hisses Carlos.

Cecil squeezes his shoulder. Which doesn't help at all, because it only drives home the point that Carlos might owe his life to Cecil's obsessive lust over him, and now, one year later, the obsession is as strong as ever and coming to collect.

If only he hadn't been The Scientist, clever enough to synthesize explosives in the first place. If only he'd been too squeamish to kill, or if he'd had the guts to drink the poisoned water. If he'd died in the Arena, his family wouldn't have to be targets, and Cecil wouldn't be taking him home like some kind of perverse trophy....

But it's too late for regrets now. He's alive, and he has a brother and sisters who are counting on him to keep _them_ alive. Two kids died this morning because Carlos couldn't figure out how to save them, which means he has to do whatever it takes to keep the same thing from happening to his family. And if that means sitting quietly through all the ways Cecil wants to touch him...so be it.

 

***

 

Cecil has a luxury apartment, not the top floor but close to it, in an elegant downtown skyscraper. He's kind enough (or at least, observant enough) to show Carlos to the kitchen first, where Carlos can top off his water bottle at the sink.

"This will be your room, just so you know," he continues, leading Carlos to a surprisingly small guest room. It doesn't even have a double bed. Is Carlos getting put away once Cecil's through with him? Or maybe what Cecil wants to do to him won't happen on a bed at all. "But you're not sleepy yet, I'm sure! Let's go to the TV room. There's not much on live while the Games are playing, but I have some wonderful holos taped. Oh, wait, are you still hungry...?"

"I'd like to use your bathroom," blurts Carlos. "Where's that?"

"Oh, of course! Silly me, skipping right over it. It's just down the hall."

Carlos strides off in the direction he's pointing, as fast as possible without looking like he's running away. He needs some time alone to breathe. And hey, maybe he can stall so long that Cecil gets tired, or gets a rush call back to the broadcast center to cover some ~exciting~ new deadly development in the Games. Maybe....

He takes one look at the inside of the bathroom, slams the door, and bolts in the other direction.

The lab coat flies out behind him as he skids into the kitchen, where he starts frantically rummaging through drawers. Knives, knives, where does Cecil keep the knives? He's got enough dishes to cook with, he has to have something in here that's good for disemboweling —

"Carlos?"

Carlos spins on his heel, fist closed around the handle of a steak knife. He doesn't thrust it forward pre-emptively; that's a waste of energy and a quick way to lose it. (Glow taught him that.) Instead his arm is at his side, knees slightly bent, poised to throw his whole body into the stab just as soon as his target is actually in reach.

Cecil, on the other side of the kitchen, holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "What's wrong, Carlos? It's all right. You can tell me."

Or Carlos could stab him, right here and now, and run.

But where would he go? The Capitol is a big place. He'll never make it out without being spotted. And even if he calls his family from Cecil's house phone and tells them to head for the woods, he'll have no way of knowing whether they make it....

And he doesn't _want_ to stab Cecil, he doesn't want to be behind another death for _anyone_ , so he keeps holding the knife ready but tells Cecil the truth: "There's a mutt in your bathroom."

To his utter confusion, Cecil laughs. "I'm so sorry! Of course you were scared. I completely forgot to warn you. Excuse me a moment."

He turns his back on Carlos' knife and sashays out.

A minute later he returns...with a Capitol-engineered muttation carried in his arms like a mid-sized dog. It looks like it might have been based on a cat, but it has obsidian-dark spines, four violet eyes that reflect so much light they almost glow, and a wide mouth with far too many teeth.

Cecil skritches the mutt's head, carefully avoiding the spines. "Carlos, I'd like you to meet Khoshekh! He was made for the Games a few years back, and they ended up not using him. They were just going to throw the poor thing away, can you imagine?"

Yes. Carlos can imagine that very easily. What he can't imagine is someone willingly taking that thing _home_.

"I admit, I wasn't much of a cat person at the time, but now? I wouldn't trade him for the world," continues Cecil. "Say hello to Carlos, Khoshekh!"

The mutt opens his mouth and lets out a creaking, gnashing howl. Cecil giggles and pets him some more, whispering praises into his ragged ears.

When Carlos still hasn't relaxed, or put down his weapon, Cecil looks him over and frowns. "Would you like to hang on to that? They won't let you take it back into the Games complex, but you're welcome to keep it for tonight, if it would help."

This whole thing is making less sense by the second. "Why would you let me do that?" asks Carlos, half demand and half plea. "What if I tried to stab you?"

"I can only assume that it would hurt. And make quite a mess. Why? Does it seem like something you would be likely to do?"

"Maybe! If you...if you try to make me...you _bought_ me for the night! It wasn't for no reason, was it? You have...plans. Things you want. Right?"

"Oh, of course."

"Tell me. Say them out loud."

Cecil sighs and kneels, slowly, to set Khoshekh down. The cat-mutant scampers past Carlos to get to its food dish, which holds what looks like ordinary kibble. "You must realize, Carlos, that you are an exceptionally handsome young man."

"I've heard." To be fair, Carlos has mostly heard it from Cecil.

"You were the subject of some very intense bidding. Marcus Vansten himself was in the running for a while, did you guess that? He could have outbid the rest of us put together, if he'd really wanted to. Which just goes to show how generous the rich really are."

Carlos isn't touching that one with a ten-foot pole.

"But of course, no matter how much money Marcus Vansten has, he never would have been able to appreciate your perfection properly. None of them would."

"And you will," guesses Carlos bitterly.

"Of course!" exclaims Cecil. "By making sure you eat well, and giving you a nice warm bed that doesn't look anything like your room at the Games complex, and by not letting you have anything to do with the Games at all for the rest of the night."

There's something conspicuously missing in this equation. "So what do you get out of all this? What do I have to do in return?"

"Perfect, wonderful Carlos, your presence is the only reward I need." Cecil beams at him. "Of course, if you feel indebted...."

Here it comes.

"...I suppose you could help me make dinner. Or help clean up afterward."

If they keep dancing around this any longer, Carlos is going to give himself an anxiety attack. "What about sex?"

Cecil blinks. "That would also be wonderful. But are you sure you're up for it? Not that I'm judging! I realize that everyone has their own ways of coping...."

"I wasn't offering!" exclaims Carlos. He's finally starting to realize that maybe this isn't a trick. Maybe Cecil is just creepy, not malevolent, and his reasons for buying Carlos for the night are genuinely innocent. Is this what Josie was trying to tell him earlier? "Cecil, is this...have you done this with new Victors before? Buy us out, at least at the start, to give us a night off?"

"Oh, gosh, no. I'm not _that_ rich," says Cecil. "And while I'm sure most of you are delightful people, I certainly can't fall in love with every single one. Now, I'm getting the sense that you're not really all that hungry right now, but I barely ate anything at that party and I am famished, so if you wouldn't mind me using the kitchen...? You can keep the knife and stand at a distance, and I'll do my best not to make any sudden moves."

 

***

 

Cecil doesn't know the meaning of the word _famished_. Cecil has never had the slightest inkling of what it's like to be staggering on the edge of death from malnutrition.

But Cecil is probably the only reason Carlos isn't getting raped right now, so Carlos counts his blessings and eats the chicken salad Cecil presents to him without complaint. As an experiment, he even puts down the knife while eating, where it would be easy for the other man to reach across the table and take it.

Cecil barely looks at it. He's too busy feeding Khoshekh scraps...and explaining to Carlos how sweatervests are going to be all the rage next season, and which colors and patterns will be ideal to bring out the highlights in Carlos' perfect eyes.

 

***

 

Even in a room with no physical triggers to remind him of the Games, Carlos sleeps badly. He's sitting up, knife in hand, the second he hears the door creak open.

There's a too-light tread on the carpets, and a soft animal _whuff_ near the floor.

It's just Khoshekh. Carlos puts the knife down, and manages not to panic as the spiny cat-muttation hops up onto the foot of the bed. Large paws pad along the mattress, until Khoshekh decides he's found a spot he likes and curls up in a round, furry heap just below the pillow.

There's room on the mattress for both of them if Carlos lies on his side and curls around Khoshekh's body, so he does. As another experiment, he tries petting the creature's sleek black-and-violet coat. "Cecil didn't send you here so he could live vicariously through you, did he, buddy?" he murmurs, only half kidding.

Khoshekh rubs his face against the heel of Carlos' hand and purrs like a bass drum.

"Good cat," whispers Carlos.

He buries his own face in Khoshekh's soft fur, and, for the first time all year, lets the tears start coming.


	3. The Mentor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos has been his district's only mentor for the Hunger Games for a decade now (and part of Panem's favorite celebrity romance for almost as long). This year, though? He's gotten a tribute who might be, not just a survivor, but someone who can help change the Games forever.

The last year Carlos' youngest sister is eligible for the Games, she isn't chosen.

Carlos would love to breathe a sigh of relief. But the girl whose name is drawn instead of Azalea's is a twelve-year-old, and whether it's a reminder for him or just a coincidence, it isn't going to make this year any less miserable.

He pastes on his calmest, most respectable expression as the tributes emerge from saying goodbye to their families. The calm is helped by the moderate dose of sedatives he's always riding at this time of year. The way his hair is turning grey at the temples, even though he's only twenty-six, also helps give people the idea he's a serious authority figure who knows what he's doing.

The boy, a seventeen-year-old named Paolo, accepts his by-now-traditional water bottle. The girl eyes it with suspicion. "Can I take this in the Arena?"

"No," says Carlos as Leann ushers them all onto the train. "It's just something to hang on to for the moment. A token of how I'm going to do everything I can to get you through this."

The girl takes it, and slings it over her shoulder without breaking eye contact. Her eyes are dark. Very dark. Deep in understanding, wise beyond their time. "You gonna teach me how to kill, Scientist?"

"If you like," says Carlos, surprised. He's never had anyone under fourteen ask that. They're always desperate for the secret of how to not die.

"Good," says Tamika Flynn. "'Cause I already know how to stay alive."

 

***

 

The first crop of cameras are waiting on the platform when their train arrives in the Capitol.

Technically the press are here to get a first view of the tributes, but that's just an excuse. What they really want is some juicy shots of their favorite celebrity romance. As the car slows to a complete stop, Carlos straightens his collar, tousles his hair, and puts his game face on.

The cameras get some charming footage of Carlos looking hopefully around the crowd, guiding each tribute with a hand on the shoulder to keep them in the shot. A joyful shout from the walkway above catches his attention — "Carlos~!" — and then Cecil is flying down the stairs onto the platform, throwing himself into Carlos' arms, where they kiss like they haven't seen each other since the last Games.

Carlos' assorted fans and groupies (as well as a few who are probably Cecil's) cheer. Some of the reporters themselves applaud, not even pretending to be objective.

Good.

It's been sold as a fairy-tale love story, and the locals eat it up: scruffy District boy makes good, wins the heart of beautiful Capitol socialite, gets a surprise proposal a few years later, and they live happily ever after. Carlos thinks even President Winchell might believe it by this point.

In fact, the only surprise for Carlos was when Marcus Vansten finally outbid Cecil.

The evening itself is still a fog in Carlos' head (at least Marcus was kind enough to provide the drugs himself). He just remembers the comedown, feeling sick and sore and filthy, wishing his triggers were around anything other than water so he could convince himself to take a long shower. By then he knew that Cecil had once kept a similar monopoly on a previous Victor, before getting bored with Earl the year before Carlos volunteered, and was convinced Cecil had moved on from him too.

The very next night Cecil brought him home, practically threw him into an already-full bathtub the size of a small pool, and said, _I know you must be furious with me right now, but I have an idea._

So Carlos doesn't begrudge Cecil these public kisses, even though he knows Cecil gets a thrill out of them. Being pulled out of the underground Victor sex trade has saved him from so much worse. The marriage also gives Carlos a remarkable amount of leeway to travel back and forth from the Capitol to Five throughout the year, which has proved...useful.

And then there's the advantage of publicity. Carlos steps back from the kiss, hands briefly cupping Cecil's face, and says, "Cecil, I'd like you to meet this year's tributes from District Five."

Cecil shakes Paolo's hand, and Tamika's, fussing delightedly over both of them. The cameras eat this up too. It's prime exposure, bonus screen time even before the opening ceremonies, and between whatever image pointers Carlos can give the kids on the train and Cecil's natural talent for making tributes look good, it never hurts.

Granted, it hasn't helped any of his kids enough to win so far, but he isn't (yet) broken enough to stop trying.

 

***

 

In the Mentors' Box overlooking the soon-to-begin opening ceremonies, Carlos greets his comrades.

There's a hard-forged respect between all of them, even if most of them aren't exactly friends. The Victors from One and Two tend to coalesce into their own little groups, and then of course you've got people like Larry Leroy, from one of the outlying districts, who's been drinking since he woke up. Carlos both resents and envies the mentors who give up before the Games begin.

John Peters (you know, from the farm district) mentored last year's Victor, and now he's going around helping Dana get to know the rest of them. Dana's Arena was a flat and scrubby wasteland with a mountain in the distance, almost as dry as Carlos's. She's carrying a permanent water bottle of her own these days, plus a couple of power bars, and thanks him for the inspiration.

She's eighteen now, and beautiful. Carlos tries to focus on the whispered conversations he needs to have while the cameras are all pointed at the chariots, tries not to think about the bidding wars that are going to break out over her.

Everything quiets down when the parade begins. The tributes from One are, as usual, bejeweled and stunning; Josephine's girl is in a gown with thousands of tiny silver points. (Carlos doesn't comment that it looks like it's made of staples. Josephine is about as old as Josie, but still more than capable of taking his head off.) On the Two chariot, Nazr's boy is in a form-hugging uniform that emphasizes his bulging muscles.

When the tributes from Three burst onto the scene, Carlos understands why Steve Carlsberg has seemed like more of a jerk than usual today. Steve's boy is twelve, like Tamika, but instead of being stocky and determined he's frail, shy, and has (though his stylists have tried to draw attention away from it) only one working hand. He won't last five minutes.

Over the loudspeakers, Cecil gives them all gushing introductions, regardless of district, age, or physical state. When the Fives ride in, he adds that they're lucky to be mentored by "perfect Carlos." Steve shoots Carlos a dirty look; Carlos ignores it. If Steve was the one Cecil favored, he would take the extra praise for his own tributes in a heartbeat, and they both know it.

On it goes. Josie's girl has been decked out in a costume with elaborate feathered wings. Earl Harlan got a couple of eighteen-year-olds this year. The kids from the farm district are dressed in bright orange and carrying sickles. The kids from the outlying districts look small and hungry.

Carlos doesn't bother to remember any of their names. None of the mentors do. It's going to be hard enough trying to get all of them killed as-is.

 

***

 

The Arena is indoors this year. Some kind of massive, long-abandoned building that extends well underground, at least seven floors of labyrinthine rooms full of the wreckage of a long-gone society. Taste must go in circles, because the architecture looks like a well-weathered version of the popular styles in Panem today.

"Of course, all this will be forcefielded off, so our tributes will never see it," narrates Cecil over a pan shot of the building's exterior, "but isn't it just lovely? Imagine what it would look like if all that marble were restored! The columns, the sculptures...I'm being handed a note that says those big ones there are a kind of extinct animal called _lions_. Gosh! I wonder what Khoshekh would think if he could meet one of those?"

Carlos' kids are together, for the moment. Paolo snagged a backpack with a fair amount of food from the Cornucopia. Good, because there are no natural food sources around.

He's sharing with Tamika, which may or may not be a wise decision. Tamika didn't manage to retrieve any food of her own, and in an Arena like this, sharing resources with an ally may be shooting yourself in the foot.

On the other hand, Tamika has an axe, and she looks like she knows how to use it.

 

***

 

Three days in. There's a gala in the complex's second-floor ballroom, where Mentors who may have to run for the elevators at any moment can mingle with potential sponsors. Carlos puts on his nicest pair of furry pants and his fancy-dress imitation lab coat, and flirts for all he's worth.

"The Games are always my favorite time of year," purrs one man, leaning uncomfortably into Carlos' personal space. His teeth are filed into dazzling fangs, a trend that started with Hiram McDaniels, a handsome and charismatic victor from Two who (Carlos is certain) was mostly just trying to discourage people from renting him out with blowjobs in mind. "All these feisty, spirited kids turning up to show their District pride! It's so inspirational, don't you think?"

Carlos wonders if whatever cosmetic treatment left Kevin's eyes totally black also impaired his ability to see violent deaths as a bad thing. "We're all very proud of our tributes."

"And it's been just fascinating, the way they have to change things for an indoor arena," adds Kevin with a too-wide grin. "The little robots they send instead of dropping sponsor gifts by parachute are so clever! I know they must be run by computer, but the way they scamper along...." He walks his fingers up Carlos' arm, five of them at a skittering gait. "...it seems like they ought to have tiny little brains in them."

"Well, I don't build the things, I just send them," says Carlos, trying for a lighthearted tone. As with all things electronic, the robots are produced by District Three. "Speaking of which...I would love to be able to send another round of drinking water to my kids. I'm sure you noticed Paolo's solid training score, and —"

Kevin's hand is resting on Carlos' arm now, not too tight, but with fingernails so sharp that one too-fast movement is going to shred Carlos' nice coat. "Oh, I'm putting all my money this year into that charming Vanessa from District One!"

Vanessa killed one of the Twelves this morning with what looked for all the world like a primitive stapler. "Charming," echoes Carlos, and smiles, and tastes Vithya's blood, and forces his smile wider.

_A mentor does not get stuck in flashbacks while their tributes are still counting on them. That's the last thing a mentor —_

"Kevin!" exclaims Cecil, shouldering Kevin away with minimal damage to Carlos' clothing. He looks like he wants to throttle the man, not that Kevin seems to notice. "Do excuse my rudeness, but I absolutely must have this dance with my husband."

So saying, he waltzes Carlos out across the floor.

"Thanks," says Carlos under his breath. He even means it. On his sliding scale of morality, by Capitol standards, Cecil is worth being grateful for.

"That man is a vicious wretch," hisses Cecil. "He —"

"Carlos, I need to talk to you."

It's the one person guaranteed to make Cecil's mood even worse. "Go away, _Steve_."

"It's all right, Cecil." Carlos pulls out of his partner's grip, then belatedly thinks to give Cecil a kiss on the cheek. "I'll try not to be long."

He takes Steve's hand, mind racing. It's an emergency, it must be, because there's no way they can talk here — in the same room as half of the most pampered people in the Capitol, for heaven's sake! — and the only reason Steve would even risk pulling him aside right now is if something has gone catastrophically wrong, so what —

"There's something you missed in the Arena," says Steve.

Oh. Of course, it's just a Games thing. Carlos looks automatically to one of the screens at the side of the gala room, which is showing the regular public broadcast; it's following the Career pack right now, and they look way less ratings-grabbing than a death would be. "My kids —?"

"Both alive," confirms Steve. Which is more than he can say for his own; his girl got knifed during the bloodbath. "And they appear to be making an alliance with my...boy."

(The hesitation doesn't turn out to be anything ominous. Steve just doesn't want the kid outed to all of Panem. As he tells Carlos, in spite of the body type and official records that led the one-handed child to be reaped with the boys, her name is Megan.)

 

***

 

Two days later, one of Carlos' screens goes dark.

He switches the audio on his headphones to the public broadcast. Sure enough, Cecil's voiceover greets him: "To the parents and family of Paolo, our hearts go out to you in this time of fear and uncertainty. As in all other times of fear and uncertainty. Which is all of them, really."

Carlos takes a deep breath through his nose, lets it out through his mouth. He can still see Paolo's body on the other screen, the one showing a Tamika-centric long shot of the narrow, shadowy aisle between shelves. The bodies of the muttations that attacked them are strewn all around, too, one still gurgling its last breath.

Tamika swings her axe one more time, a clean stroke through its throat.

She looks up and says something, and Carlos hurriedly switches back to the audio of his still-active screen. "It's all the mutts," reports Megan Wallaby from a high shelf, which she clambered up to when the mutts appeared. She's fast, which surprised Carlos until he thought about it: of course you can climb easily with one working hand and one forearm if that's the way you learned to do it. "There's somebody behind you, though."

Tamika whirls around, axe brandished as both a shield and a warning. "Who's there?"

Carlos actually jumps in his chair when Earl's boy steps forward through the gloom. It's like the kid appeared out of thin air. "Franklin Wilson," he says, his own hands raised in a gesture of peace. There's a slingshot in one of them. "I, uh, helped take out a couple of those when they were behind you. Dunno if you noticed."

"M?" asks Tamika, not taking her eyes off of Earl's boy.

"Some of them went down and I didn't see what hit them," says Megan. "It would make a lot of sense if it was small, fast-moving rocks."

"I've got stuff to make fire," adds Franklin.

(They won't have any shortage of fuel. If there's one thing this Arena is rich in, it's old, dry paper.)

Not two minutes later, the most recent Victor from Earl's district, Barton Donovan, is standing at the door of Carlos' cubicle. "Earl wants to know if you want to go halfsies on a unit of uncooked chicken."

Carlos doesn't take his eyes off the window with the suddenly-jumping value of his cache of sponsor funds. "As long as Earl's boy actually knows how to cook."

 

***

 

The scuttling silver robot carries the sponsor-gifted food across the dusty floor, around corners and down halls and through a couple of crumbling holes in the walls, to deposit it about five feet from where Tamika and her group are hiding out.

Tamika's axe comes down, smashing the machine in half.

Megan gives her a thumbs-up.

 

***

 

The next day. Carlos is in the middle of a catnap on the break room couch when Angel, a dark-skinned, dark-haired Victor from Josie's district, throws water on his face. It's the one sure way to wake him up that won't give him flashbacks to his Arena.

He sits up fast, nearly strangling himself with his water bottle strap, blinking hard. "What is it?"

"Congratulations," says Angel. "Our girl just teamed up with yours. I'm switching off with Josie in five minutes; she'll want to talk to you."

A couple of caffeine pills and a strong glass of orange juice later, Carlos is watching Tamika negotiate with Erika, who doesn't have a real weapon but has gotten pretty handy with an antique light fixture. This is getting dangerous. There are only eleven tributes left; it's too late in the Games to be making an alliance of four.

 

***

 

"District One, male; District Eight, female. Good night, Panem. Good night."

And now they're down to nine.

Carlos pulls off his headphones and drags himself out of his chair. There's another party starting in ten minutes, a more limited one. Very hip. Very exclusive. Time to go smile and be handsome and look totally convincing when he tells people that Tamika Flynn is not going to be killed when this alliance breaks, in fact she has a real shot at winning this thing, and they should get out their credit cards now.

 

***

 

Eight. Two Careers (Josephine's girl and Nazr's boy), the two kids from the farm district (you know, with John Peters), and Tamika's alliance.

Carlos' picture-in-picture of the live broadcast flips to a 3-D graphic of the most horrifying mutt he's ever seen. He flips over the audio to hear, "...brand-new design! Well, viewers, I am certainly shocked and terrified. According to my notes, the Gamemakers are calling these ones _librarians_ , which is not a term I recognize, but which they seem to think is extremely clever. How will our fragile multi-District alliances react? Let's watch!"

Here's how they react. In one group, Careers fight as hard as they can, but Josephine's girl doesn't make it. In the other, Tamika wields her axe with tiny righteous fury, the others backing her up with slingshot hits to the monsters' eyes, flaming torches, and the sharp edges of whatever-the-hell Megan Wallaby is building...and everybody lives.

Josie is making a guest appearance in the perpetually-free second chair in Carlos' cubicle as Tamika hacks off one of the librarians' ragged, clawed hands and uses a strip of fabric to hang it around her neck. "Quite a strategy they have going there."

Carlos grimaces. "It certainly is."

"By the way, Carlos...."

"Hm?"

"You smell like lavender chewing gum, you know that?"

Carlos stares at her for a few long seconds. She can't possibly be using the right code. He was expecting it to be _years_ before someone gave him that code.

"Well, don't be offended, it was just an observation," huffs Josie. "Anyway, where was I...? Oh yes. I was saying, it's quite an inspiring strategy these kids have going."

 

***

 

Final Eight means a special round of interviews. The kids' family members. Their mentors.

A brilliant smile for the camera, a few stirring words about Tamika, and then Carlos makes a joke about his watch being broken, which makes sense, because time doesn't seem to work right during the Games. During one event it flies by, and during another it slows to a crawl.

And during this interview? Well, his watch is stopped completely right now, so it's like....

"There is no time. No more time."

He grins, and everything about his cover is perfect, and — in front of their TV sets back in Five — his family understands instantly.

 

***

 

The Gamemakers are getting impatient, manipulating the Arena in earnest to push all the groups together: new packs of mutts, new traps and dangers. Cecil is signing off his broadcasts later and later, not able to miss any of the municipally-enforced action.

It's the venomous butterfly-mutts that finally land a hit.

Carlos drops everything and goes straight to Steve's cubicle, where one screen is dark and the other shows tiny Megan, already sweating and shuddering from the poison. He doesn't beat around the bush. "Can you afford the antidote?"

"God, no. They just jacked up the price," says Steve hopelessly. "And even if they hadn't...."

"Tell me what you have," says Carlos. "I'll put up —"

"Save your money, Five," cuts in a new voice. It's Larry Leroy, from one of the outlying districts, doing a decent impression of mostly-sober. "Me and Eleven can cover this one."

 

***

 

Dana is visiting Earl's cubicle when Carlos checks in on him. "If we could just drop some kind of token," she's saying, almost pleading.

"I'm trying to tell you, it's not — Carlos!" exclaims Earl. "See, Dana, this is who you should be talking to. Tamika's his girl."

"Your boy's the one who got an eleven in training —"

"And that's made Frankie a great asset to Tamika, but she's the one running this show."

On screen, Tamika runs into the frame, carrying a case with two syringes. She hands it to Franklin, who snaps a quick salute before crouching to administer the treatment. Dana watches, nods reluctantly, and gets up to speak in a low voice to Carlos. "We want to get Stacy and Leland to be your girl's allies."

Two tributes from one district can be valuable to each other, but might not be good for the balance of Tamika's group. "How far can my girl trust them?"

"I don't know! Anyone can get paranoid and snap in the Arena, whether they're with a district partner or not. You know that."

(Last year Carlos' girl did a panicky too-early kill of the boy she'd allied with from Dana's district, so yes, he knows.)

"All we want to do is drop matching tokens," continues Dana. "One for our kids, one for yours. It's anyone's guess whether they'll even find each other, but if they do...."

If they find each other, she wants them to know they're all in this together.

Just like Carlos, and the others up here in Mentor Central, and the rest scattered across Panem, are in this together. Whatever _this_ is becoming. Whether they're ready for it or not.

"Talk to Steve and Josie," says Carlos. "You need their approval. But you have mine."

 

***

 

"Coach."

"Old Woman."

The exchange of Capitol nicknames complete, Josie says, "Your boy could be in this too."

"My boy's a good kid," says Nazr. "A good kid at the Games. We win 'em. Our kids play good Games. We want to be...good Games tributes."

"There are people who will think it's the wrong thing for him to do," allows Josie. "There are people who will call him two-faced. But ask yourself, Nazr. Is that the worst thing for Michael Sandero to be?"

 

***

 

Carlos throws himself past Peacekeepers too startled to react right away, bursts into the directors' studio, and shouts Cecil's name. The white-uniformed guards are steps behind him, seize him, drag him back.

"Exciting news, listeners! Perfect Carlos, the mentor for our brilliant, bold Tamika, is here in the studio with us. Let's see if we can get an interview!" says Cecil into his mic, signaling furiously at the Peacekeepers to let Carlos go. They loosen their grip just enough; Carlos wrests himself out of it, swoops past the other technical people, and meets a baffled Cecil in the doorway of the recording booth. "Carlos, what —"

Carlos doesn't let him finish the question, just crushes him into a passionate kiss, in this dark room with the feeds from every camera in the Arena rotating on screens in the background.

"Mmph...!" Cecil melts against him, openmouthed and weak in the knees. "Oh, _Carlos_."

"I need half an hour with my husband," says Carlos, loudly enough that everyone in the room can hear. "In private. Is that all right with everyone?"

"Y-yes! Of course," breathes Cecil, overriding anyone else's objections. "Intern Ariel, take the booth. Intern Rob, page the Gamemakers and ask them not to do anything too difficult to commentate for the next thirty minutes."

 

***

 

To all appearances, Cecil and Carlos can barely keep their hands off each other in the elevator. Or in the halls. Carlos is nuzzling Cecil's neck as they stumble past a couple of Peacekeepers, and Cecil is tugging Carlos' shirt out of his waistband when the door to the Five suite slams shut behind them.

No observers here except the usual bugs in the rooms, and they only get audio. Smoothing his shirt back into place, Carlos makes a beeline for the bathroom and twists on the shower, a protective cascade of white noise.

Water patters against the tile walls.

Fresh clean drinking water...streaming right past him, not even used for anything, just running down the drain...and what if it cuts off, any second could be it, any gallon could be the last, leaving just him and the bright desert heat and the pounding headaches and the dizzy understanding that his blood pressure is starting to fall —

"Carlos. Listen to me, Carlos." Cecil's voice, calm and sure, brings him back. "You are not in the Arena. That was the past. Let my words wash over you. You are safe now."

Outside his circle of trusted fellow Victors, Cecil is the only person who can do that with any consistency. "Thanks."

"Dear Carlos, if I hadn't already guessed that this was serious, I certainly know now." Cecil takes a moment to straighten his collar, blushing. "You have something to tell me, I take it?"

"I do." Carlos takes deep breaths. "Cecil...all these years, ever since my Games, you've protected me as much as you can. And we both know I needed it. Because I'm...beautiful. Right?"

"Eminently so."

"How many other beautiful Victors have there been since you started commentating?"

Cecil's mouth twists. "A lot more than I can afford."

Carlos puts his hand on Cecil's shoulder. "How would you like to do something to protect all of them?"

Now Cecil just looks confused. "That would certainly be nice...but as I said, it's awfully expensive. Unless you mean I'd be doing something to change the whole system? But Carlos, you must understand, it's very well-entrenched. I may be well-known enough to have some amount of influence over the feelings of Panem, but I hardly think...."

"Of course you couldn't destroy the system alone," says Carlos. "It would take some kind of broader movement. Something involving a large group of people, carefully planned, over a long period of time. A movement with agents who can keep in touch between all the Districts, quickly and efficiently, without suspicion...and, ideally, a movement with sympathetic connections as far up into the Capitol hierarchy as possible."

He searches Cecil's eyes for the moment when it clicks. Cecil's appearance never changes; he doesn't seem to age, and he still has those fashionable pearly-white eyes. But after all these years, Carlos has figured out how to read him pretty well.

At last Cecil says, "What do you need me to do?"

Carlos could just about kiss him for real. (Maybe later. When this is over. Assuming they both survive.) "Keep the broadcast going," he orders. "Sooner or later they're going to try to shut it down. Don't let them. I'll make sure the power stays on — I'm a Five, making sure places have power is what Fives do — and you keep talking. Keep making sure Panem can hear the truth about what's happening in that Arena. No matter what happens, you keep Tamika Flynn on the air."

 

***

 

There are seven tributes left in the Hunger Games, and none of them are trying to kill each other.

They work together. The Gamemakers' best traps barely scratch them.

Megan Wallaby is building something. Not even Steve knows what it is yet, but the way these kids are surviving, it's only a matter of time before they find out.

Tamika Flynn finds her way to the outside of the building. She's holding a book nobody recognizes: a book she picked out of the wreckage that fills these long-forgotten walls, and has been periodically looking through ever since.

And Cecil makes sure everyone in Panem knows it — whether they're part of the rebellion or not — when she slingshots her first Capitol helicopter out of the sky.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [something else altogether](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1242913) by [Xparrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/Xparrot)




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